


I'll Be Your Window (And You'll Rise)

by Semaphora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Mythology - Freeform, Other, Reincarnation, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:34:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semaphora/pseuds/Semaphora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cuba is a catalyst, reawakening Charles and Erik's memories of a time long since passed; a time where magic and intrigue came as easy as blinking.</p><p>But Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin have not resufaced by accident—an ancient evil lies in wait, the answer to its destruction singing in their blood. With the perils of the past closing in on them, their shattered bond in the present and an unclear and distant future ahead, one thing becomes clear.</p><p>They're going to need all the help they can get.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This has been posted in single-issue form on the kink meme, to an amazing OP who suggested the following:
> 
>  _"The similarities between Charles/Erik and Gryffindor/Slytherin are almost unsettling. Even more when we know Gryffindor did defend Muggles and Muggleborns. I really would like to see an AU where Charles and Erik are in fact Gryffindor and Slytherin's reincarnations. The Divorce on the beach is such a trauma that they both end up recovering their memories of their past selves. Follow a lot of angst, doubts, maybe reconciliation, forgiveness, a love that transcends time and distance... The ending is up to the author."_
> 
> I don't have a beta for this story, so any and all feedback is greatly appreciated.

  
**i’ll be your window (and you’ll rise)**

 _1945_

Thirteen-year-old Charles Xavier bolted upright in his bed, eyes wide and unseeing. His mouth opened, beckoning a scream, but the sound never made it past his lips. The death and decay from his dreams lingered like fog around him, thick and impenetrable. There were many things he could not explain as of yet—his telepathy and Raven’s ability to shape shift being two of them—but those things had become normal. This, the brutal reality of his dreams, was anything but. He didn’t have to call upon the minds of anybody else to tell him that what he had experienced was terrifyingly, horribly true. He could feel it in his gut, to the marrow of his very bones.

It was real.

 _Oh god,_ he realised with a start. _It was real._

Charles jumped to his feet, padded across the hall to the bathroom and reached the toilet just in time to empty the contents of his supper into the porcelain bowl. He rested his head against the cool tile floor, trying to calm the utter madness in his head—a madness that was, for once, entirely his own. _His_ own thoughts, _his_ own emotions...

He blinked, tears making their way down his face, out of shock than any lingering feeling of sadness. He mourned, of course, for the bodies he had seen in his dream; for the dying, the dead, the disabled; even the survivors, few though they were. His heart ached, his body heaved, but while the sadness burned the shock consumed.

He felt tiny hands on his face, pulling him up from the floor. He blinked, eyes glassy, and the small blue figure of Raven stared calmly down at him. Even after a year of being together, her instincts were still on high alert. Nothing particularly shocked her as of yet, as she was far too used to being cast out, screamed at and forgotten. But there was concern etched into her beautiful golden eyes, concern for him, the only person who had ever looked upon her in kindness. Charles allowed her to lift him, gently, into a sitting position against the toilet.

Raven grimaced at the mess he’d made of the bowl but, without a single spoken word or thought, flushed the remains. Then she sat, body curving gracefully into itself, on the tile next to him.

“Are you okay?” she asked, softly. Charles nodded, resting his head against the side of the bath-tub.

Her next question (“what happened?”) was not as easily answered. She held his hand as he tried to explain it to her, these events that so vividly played across his mind—the sight, the smell, the power that crackled in the air, strong and palpable and absolutely awe-inspiring. Raven nodded through his explanation, asking questions at just the right moments, but didn’t force him to continue when the words caught in his throat.

After a while, however, she was unable to contain her curiosity.

“Who’s Grindelwald?”

Charles frowned. He didn’t remember speaking the name, but judging by the look on Raven’s face, he clearly had at some point. Clenching her fingers tightly in his, he shook his head, feeling the fear rise to his throat once more.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice shaking. “I-I can’t remember.”

He hunched into himself, feeling Raven’s arms along his back as her fingers rubbed small, soothing circles against his skin. This was how he fell asleep—safe, in his sister’s arms, and dreamlessly.

*

The next continent over, Erik Lensherr dozed lightly, hands clenched tightly in the thin, torn sheets of his bed. His mind was abuzz behind sleeping eyes, images of death and decay, bodies scattered along the battleground missing names and faces and limbs. The sight that had so thoroughly shaken Charles was but a distant ripple in his subconscious. Erik did not wake, for he was long since used to the utter chaos of his nightmares.

It was, in fact, a relief. For once he was dreaming of strangers, and not his mother’s empty, dead eyes.


	2. Part I

I.

 _1962_

Shaw was dead.

The three words echoed in Erik’s head, over and over again like a fragment of a song, forced to repeat itself. He didn’t know how he felt—if he could feel at all—but if he were to hazard a guess, he would say he was in shock. For almost his entire life, Sebastian Shaw had been his only target. All the other people he had killed were just cannon fodder, obstacles between him and his goal, a goal he would achieve at any cost. Now that Shaw was dead, it was almost as if a gaping hole had appeared in his chest where that drive, that passion for revenge used to be. He’d never expected to survive Shaw’s death, taking relief in the fact that if he was going down, he’d be taking Shaw with him. But he was alive, and Shaw was dead.

What now?

He had to fill the hole with something. That much he knew. But what could possibly be as electrifying and all-consuming as the fire that had burned in his lungs whenever he caught wind of Shaw’s location? What could be as thrilling as the hunt, the power that coursed through him when he honed his ability, envisioning all the ways he could murder Shaw, all the ways he could make it last as long as possible?

There was nothing. Nothing could replace that dark, empty place inside that yearned for blood. Now that his need to kill Shaw was gone, the hunger sated, all he could feel was an aching, sweeping emptiness. For a second, he longed to be back where he had always been, fragments rising to the forefront of his mind; being frustrated and crazy with madness; anger so thick he could lie down and drown in it; the taste of victory on his tongue as he got one step closer to unravelling the mystery; and the bitter feeling of disappointment when a lead fell through.

He had never considered this half-life.

That was what he was now, half a man. He would be, until he died, unless he was able to fill that hole fit to bursting with something just as strong, just as intense as his vendetta against his creator.

He recalled his own words as they echoed through Shaw’s kill room.

 _“If you’re in there, I’d like you to know that I agree with every word you said. We are the future.”_

He flinched, not because he regretted the words, but because nothing he had ever said was as true as that statement. _“Why fight for a doomed race who will hunt us down as soon as they realise their reign is coming to an end?”_ Those were Shaw’s words, but they rang as clearly in his head as if they had been his own.

Shaw was right. They were faster, stronger, _better_. Why should they aspire to be like humanity, their weak-willed opponents? Why should they have to hide their faces from the light, to feel ashamed just because they are brilliant and unique? Why should they have to bow down when it was their biological imperative to reign supreme?

Erik shook his head. This miserable half-life he had been living would end today.

Starting at that very moment.

He lifted Shaw’s corpse by the silver in his cufflinks, pushing him in front as he made his way out of the kill room to the metal-plated walls of the submarine. With but a flicker of thought, he pried open the walls, forcing them outwards and into the scorching heat of the Cuban beach. He took in the scene around him, saw his team and Shaw’s on opposite sides of the beach, facing one another with snarling faces. This would not do.

“Today, our fighting stops!” he bellowed, and Magneto was born.

*

Charles watched in a mixture of sick fascination and abject horror as Erik delivered his speech. He staggered out onto the sand, feeling the blistering sun on his back as it warmed the leather of his suit. Moira followed, a concerned frown echoing the worry inside her mind. In a move so quick it was almost subconscious, Charles delved into her surface thoughts and sent a wave of calming energy through her mind.

Moira smiled half-heartedly at him, recognising his presence, but not even his efforts could allay her fear. He worried for her safety, just as he worried for the safety of the thousands of men aboard those ships. Erik would not harm him, refused to, out of friendship and likeness. Moira and the humans, however, Charles wasn’t too sure about. Erik didn’t sound like he wished for peaceful cohabitation, and it stung that the one time he tried to use logic and reason to sway someone rather than his own telepathy, it slapped him straight back in the face. Sometimes, he considered whether he should just do away with ethics entirely. It was a rather tempting—and traitorous—thought.

It was exactly what Erik wanted.

It was exactly what he couldn’t give.

He had walked the line before but never truly crossed it, not even for Shaw. Had they been given the chance, even the CIA would have killed him on sight. After what he had done, he deserved none of Charles’ sympathies, despite the fact that being a part of his death—feeling it as if it were his own—had changed him. The tiniest of cracks had appeared in his head and was expanding, unravelling at a fevered pace as events unfolded before him.

The void in his head shifted as he and Erik walked parallel to one another, separated by what felt like half the world. It was, in reality, only a few feet of sand that divided them, but the distance on Erik’s face spoke volumes. Long gone was the time of trust and honesty as it was so brutally taken in a single act of betrayal. The helmet, a symbol of Erik’s new blood brotherhood, was also a source of inadequacy and resentment for Charles. Nothing would ever be the same because of it. Nothing ever could.

He was asking Charles something, offering him to take a look into the minds of the men onboard the ships, to prove Erik wrong. Charles withdrew from them, flinching. He turned to Moira and nodded. She retreated to the broken hull of the jet, to raise her superiors in hope that her presence would stop them from firing on the beach. Charles already knew it would not. Taking stock of the scene around him, he thought that maybe they all did.

When the ships fired, moments later, the sight was at once terrifying and beautiful. The missiles careened towards them in a perfect arc, growing ever larger as they soared across the horizon. There were hundreds of them, fired from the silos of every ship in the fleet, and it looked like the end of the world.

Charles knew before anybody, even Erik, that they would never reach their intended target. Still, he took a step back, as if that simple act would stop him from being obliterated with the rest of them in the event that Erik wasn’t powerful enough to stop them all.

He was.

The missiles stopped in their tracks, spun delicately back, and Charles began the ever-gentle process of trying to negotiate the survival of those men that would surely all perish when Erik threw them back. It was more difficult than anything, for he was completely cut off from the familiar warmth of Erik’s mind. He knew he had failed even before the words reached his lips, but the buzz of a thousand minds against his and no echo from Erik’s forced them out anyway. _They’re just following orders._ It was the truth, but sometimes the truth was wrong.

“I’ve been at the mercy of men just following orders. Never again.”

Panic rose to Charles’ throat as he watched, helplessly. Just as he was about to tackle Erik to the ground, force the helmet from his head, something in his mind intervened. In that split second, Charles saw what would happen if he tackled Erik; the brutal fight that would ensure, the fight that Erik would surely win. The man had all the advantage, especially if Charles was focusing on trying to dislodge his helmet instead of providing an adequate defence against him. Erik wouldn’t want to hurt him, but his desire to wreak havoc on the human battleships for firing upon them would be too strong to stop him. He didn’t need to read his mind to determine this, as it was written in every facet of Erik’s bold stance as he stood before him, arm outstretched, fingers splayed in the air, shaking with exertion as he held the metal airborne, cruising towards its target.

Before Charles could think of an alternate course of action, an unknown variable was thrown into the mix.

Moira raised her gun at Erik and fired.

He should have seen it, should have known. He could feel her soft presence in the back of his head, her finely-tuned instincts sending impulses to the brain, telling her that Erik needed to be stopped at any cost. She acted with desperation, unable or perhaps unwilling to consider the fact that her bullets would be useless against him. Erik could bend such a small fragment of metal with ease, force it flying straight back at her, even. Erik didn’t, of course, realising in some dark corner of his mind that Charles cared about Moira, and that she was to be granted temporary protection out of respect for their friendship. Friendship that was crumbling before his very eyes.

The bullet soared uselessly away from him. She fired a second time, then a third, and the world slowed to a shaking stop as Erik sent the bullets flying away from him—

 _—and straight towards Charles._

There was no split-second thought before impact. The bullets were going too fast. Charles couldn’t move, didn’t have time to, before they were cutting a path through his body to echo out the other side. Except that the sharp impact and agonising pain never came, for in the very moment that they were to enter him with ruthless efficiency, something completely unprecedented happened. A web of light erupted from in front of him, collided with the bullets and absorbed their momentum. The force of its arrival stunned him and he staggered back, eyes wide in shock, pain blooming across his chest as real as if he had been hit.

The light was a beautiful, cerulean blue; a shade lighter than Raven’s true form, perhaps. This was the last coherent thought he had as the light dissipated into the air around him, as quickly as it had appeared, and the ground flew up to meet him as he stumbled and fell onto the warm, unforgiving sand.

Another thought, not coherent at all, entered his mind—a single word, strong and unrelenting.

 _Magic._


	3. Part II

II.

He blinks, against the rain hitting his face from where it falls from the blackened sky; against the water that rolls down his cheeks like tears. He is long past reasoning with, and doesn’t attempt to shield himself from the downpour. On the contrary, he embraces it, arms splayed wide as the sky continues its fierce drumbeat, the rat-tat of rain slamming against the sidewalk, like the discarded shells of bullets in an open-fire war. The thunder-claps accompany a truly terrifying bolt of lightning as the shower persists, but he holds firm. There will be no running, no hiding. Not here.

Not from this.

He cannot tell if he feels burdened or relieved of his burden, for it is both a blessing and a curse to be in the middle of this storm. He watches the sky flare, white-hot and frighteningly bright, and he wonders: _Perhaps this is what I will be in my next life, the very force that can chase the darkness from the night._

It is whimsical, poetic even, but as the rain sinks into his skin he realises that it hardly matters. In this place, in this storm, he can be whoever he wants to be. He can be as eloquent or as softly-spoken as he wishes to, for there is nobody here to tell him otherwise. The thought is as liberating as the howling winds, billowing through the forest, stripping it of its loose leaves until they too are part of the sweeping, irresistible force that blows past him into the black. His clothes begin to stick to his skin and he shudders, the cold settling against his body like a suit of ice and it is all he can do to rub at his arms, to ignite some heat into his rattled bones.

It is a futile gesture, and it isn’t long before he tires of it, before he sets his eyes to the clouds once more.

The loneliness persists, intensifies with every heated glance, every touch and every inkling of fear. Since childhood’s hour he has been alone, forever alone, regardless of how many mutants they have found. He is the pariah in a group of outcasts, the one exception to their golden rule. _Stay out of my head,_ they say, and what they don’t understand even as they demand it is how much it hurts, worse every time. How is he supposed to be perfect for them if they will not tell him what perfect is? How can he recreate that bond when he is not only blind and deaf, but severed from every social nuance, every suggestion and every thought?

How can he save them when he cannot even _breathe_ in their presence?

He releases a shuddering, aching gasp; a broken sound that does more to shatter his faith than anything else he has seen so far. It is only here, completely alone, that he is whole. That he is allowed to be whole.

The worst part is that he understands. The need to feel safe in one’s mind, with the freedom to think and to feel without judgement is a base need, a base right that every person—human and mutant alike—is entitled to. It is a need, just as he needs to reach and to press, to unfold and to listen. He cannot deny them that, even if it means denying himself, for he is one man among millions and the day that he puts his own wellbeing above all others is the day that everything he believes in becomes obsolete.

But there is peace to his chaos. Moments, like this one, where any thought as to what might be happening elsewhere is purged from his mind and there is nothing but the inky twilight, the pouring rain and the intermittent flash of lightning in the sky. Nothing but the storm, the perfect culmination of destruction and repair, creation and extinction, happiness and sadness and all the world’s problems swept away with the flood.

The rain, scathingly cold where it lands on his skin, continues to fall in its hypnotic downpour, interspersed with forks of light that echo through the canopy. The storm rages on, strong and cruel and entirely confident in its existence, the thunder booming in the distance as if voicing its accord.

Then, suddenly, the thunder isn’t as distant anymore. It grows louder and louder in his ears, closer and closer to where he stands shielding himself from the worst of the cold, motionless until—

He leaps backwards all of a sudden, turning on his heel with a grace he had not known he possessed. At first there is nothing but shadow, the harsh beating of the rain against the pavement, but it is not long before a shape appears in front of him. It stands on all fours, glowing softly in the blue-black of the night; a being of light, pure and unrestrained, with an animalistic growl that chases away the din of the sky until only its guttural call remains. He wipes the water from his eyes, forces his vision to sharpen, to hone in on this anomaly so adamant to weather his storm. The light resonates from within, until it becomes perfectly clear what he is seeing. At the heart of the shape is a tangled mess of thread-like thought, woven tightly into a glowing ball that could only be its core. It is emotion, it is life.

It is a _soul._

He takes an immediate step towards it, entranced by the golden glow of its centre. When he is but a few paces away he stops to watch—in wonder, in delight—as the glow dims to the point in which he can discern its shape.

Head bowed, mouth tightly shut, a lion stares back at him with a look that could only be described as expectant. He forces his legs to bring him forward, into its space, and it is then that the first wisps of like thought reach out to brush against his mind and the feeling is so unexpected, so startling and so pure that his feet falter beneath him and he stumbles, falling to the rain-soaked path below.

He lies there, groggily, for what feels like a small eternity, eyes shut and head spinning. When he feels as if he can move without further disorientating himself, he shifts, realigning his focus to see the lion pad softly towards him. Head tilted in feline curiosity, it bridges the gap between them with only a few short paces. Then, in the most unique display of all, it sits elegantly by his feet, watching him with warm, amber eyes.

Watching him.

Waiting for him.

Without a single thought to the consequences of his actions, he reaches out with trembling fingers to press his hand against the lion’s steadily moving chest. To his surprise, the fur is warm to touch, and he pets it absently. The lion doesn’t attack him—it barely even moves—and he is quick to release the breath he has been holding.

Before he can offer a single thought as to what he should do next, the lion lifts its head and _roars_.

The sound is incredible, unlike anything he has ever heard before in his life. It is loud, louder than the thunder still blossoming in the sky, and it carries with it a spirit that is both awesome and terrifying. As the sound passes through him, he feels his body explode with warmth, flooding through him at the atomic level to settle against his skin like a blanket, surrounding and protecting him from harm.

Eyes glistening with an intelligence that surpasses that of any animal he has ever met, the lion rises to its feet. It stalks slowly up the line of his body, its paws soundless against the rain-soaked pavement beneath it. He remains perfectly still from where he sits, perched on his elbows to get a better view of the perplexing beast beside him. In a move as sudden as it is vicious, the lion pounces on him, pinning his shoulders under its immense weight, standing over him like a malevolent God, summoned to destroy.

Terrified, he shuts his eyes and waits for the end, for the feeling of blood seeping from his body as the lion delivers its final blow, biting into him in one fell swoop. He waits for the pain to begin, the agony of death.

It is a pain that never comes.

His eyelids flutter open to see that the lion, still pinning him to the cold, wet ground, has begun to flare around the edges; its body becoming poor and insubstantial. The light begins to slowly fade from its core, its weight just falling away as it disappears entirely. He releases a shaking, sobbing breath when the air above him becomes cold and weathered, possessing none of its radiance and warmth.

He presses his hand to his chest in blind shock, fingers trembling in a way that has nothing to do with the biting wind. Only then does he realise that the only place the lion could have dissapeared to so quickly, is within himself.

*

Erik saw the light—saw Charles fall—and his heart stopped. Magneto fell away as quickly as he had appeared; disappearing into the fade until the next time he was needed. Erik was stripped bare as he fell to his knees beside Charles, his attack on the human ships forgotten as the missiles detonated harmlessly into the ocean. His panic thrummed strongly beneath his skin, cracks appearing along the surface of his mind as he tried (and failed) to comprehend his own actions, how stupid he had been to throw away that bullet instead of stopping it in its tracks.

What was he thinking? Where else would the bullet go if not towards him?

The answer and the eventuality were obvious to him now in a way they hadn’t been when he had reached out with his ability and threw the offensive metal away; all instinct, anger and hate for the human woman firing upon him so recklessly. He could feel the metal in her dog-tags even now, and a small part of his mind suggested that he use that against her, to suffocate her where she stood. But he couldn’t. Even as his gut screamed that this was her fault, that she deserved to die after harming Charles, after harming what was rightfully his, he knew that it wasn’t true. Perhaps if Charles were awake and warm beneath him, if he had that relief of knowing his best friend was still alive, then maybe he would attack. But not now, not a moment sooner.

He tugged himself away from those thoughts as they lingered, pressing into dangerous territory when his mind began to consider what would happen to him and everybody around him if Charles never woke. The way the rage pooled in his stomach even now, Erik realised that it would probably look like hell on earth.

Deep within him, Magneto thrummed in agreement.

The light that had surrounded Charles before his fall was a mystery in itself, but he couldn’t even fathom a thought towards it for now. Not while Charles was lying motionless on the ground, unresponsive to Erik’s touches or the roar of his voice against the ocean as he yelled his name. When the others attempted to take a shaking step forward, Magneto reawakened in all of his glory, and with a violent jerk of his hand swept them all away from him, a snarl emanating from deep within his chest. He allowed Raven to stay on her feet, if only because he knew she was smart enough not to dare approach him.

Charles was warm beneath his fingertips, and the steady rise and fall of his chest as Erik turned him over helped loosen the tight grip that panic had secured round his throat. His fingers moved from Charles’ shoulder to his face, a single hand bracing him up into Erik’s lap in hope that the move would stir him from unconsciousness. The other remained curled across the length of his face, the pad of his thumb resting lightly against a pale cheekbone.

His desperation grew. He knew the most logical thing to do would be to allow Hank—or, as Erik preferred, the newly named Beast—to take a look at him. He was, after all, the most qualified after Charles. But the thought sent a flash of vicious possessiveness through him. Charles was hurt, and Charles was his. Nobody else could touch him.

He felt movement against his fingertips and dropped his helmeted head just in time to see the soft flutter of eyelashes. The lids lifted and Charles stared back at him. Glazed over as they were with shock and pain, Charles’ eyes were still the brightest blue Erik had ever seen. Bright and blue and warm and safe and he could have wept with the relief that coursed through him at the thought. Charles was here, with him. Charles was _alive._

Charles opened his mouth, lips forming the first letter of Erik’s name with a pained sigh. Then he stopped, visibly faltered, and his eyes grew wide. Erik’s hands pressed desperately against his face, willing him to stay with him. He opened his mouth, tried again, and Erik listened for the familiar sound of his name from Charles’ lips.

It never came.

Charles’ face was a combination of fear, agony and sadness, the last emotion of which was so prominent on his face that it took Erik’s breath away. Tears welled in his eyes, rolled softly down his cheeks.

When he spoke, it was with a voice full of wonder.

_“Salazar?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter originally consisted of a single scene – Erik, falling to Charles' side. It has since been revised from its woefully small state to include the meeting between Charles and Godric, as obscure and metaphorical as it is.
> 
> Thank you for reading. A very special mention goes out to the lovely person who commented last chapter. 
> 
> As always, all feedback is greatly appreciated.


	4. Part III

III.

The questioning look on Salazar’s face confused him, as did many things he noticed about his surroundings.

For one, they were nowhere near Hogwarts, a place from which he hardly ever strayed. He was needed at the school to instil a sense of guidance, authority and trust in their students, just as Rowena and Helga were, as Salazar was supposed to be. This was another thing that confused him. Why was Salazar here? He couldn’t place where _here_ was, exactly, but the matter was of little importance, overshadowed as it was by the man staring down at him as if he had been on the receiving end of a particularly bad Confundus charm.

The last he knew of Salazar Slytherin was that the wizard had disappeared so completely, it was as if he had never existed in the first place. The only shreds of evidence to contest that fact were his memories, the memories of Rowena and Helga, and the Slytherin house itself. There was a deep, slow tug in his chest as he realised just how much he had mourned Salazar’s departure, and fresh tears welled in his eyes at the thought.

Godric Gryffindor was not known to cry, or to express weakness at all but for the noblest of causes.

This, he decided, was noble enough.

“My dear friend,” he began, choked. “How I have missed you.”

The tears fell softly down his face, only to be captured by the press of fingers against his cheeks. He smiled, fondly, as Salazar’s concerned face swum in the haze of his tears above him. The arms around him tightened just so, and it was all he could do not to fling himself at the other wizard, to clasp their hands together and never, ever let him go. They had already experienced enough suffering and pain to last a lifetime, maybe now they could finally have some peace. Together, in the halls of Hogwarts, teaching and being taught.

Determination swelled in his chest. He would make Salazar understand this time, that nothing, not even their opposition of one another in wizard-Muggle relations, could stop them from being together. Fate had deemed fit to reunite them, in an unknown place wearing unknown clothes, in the midst of unknown events and unknown bystanders. The only thing this could be called, if it was to be called anything at all, was destiny.

“Please,” he begged, softly, when no reply was forthcoming, “stay with me.”

He blinked away the wetness in his eyes, determined to see Salazar’s expression as he considered his plea. The other wizard was looking down at him, something akin to hope burning brightly on his face. He felt his magic respond to that look, a slow cresting wave that echoed the pleasure in him.

“You will join me, then?”

These were the first words Salazar had spoken to him since his awakening, and their effect on him was staggering. He had forgotten, exactly, just how deep and rich his friend’s voice was, so full of the emotion and life rarely shown on his face. The passion that embodied those words was just as strong and unrelenting as when they debated with one another, the warm timbre to his voice when they exchanged pleasantries down the halls, jokes and anecdotes and secrets whispered into the darkness of the night. They had been good friends, once. Closer than brothers.

His eyes were warm as he spoke: “I will follow you anywhere.”

He lifted his body carefully off the ground, feeling as if he had been hit in the chest with a rather brutal hex. Considering Salazar’s worry, perhaps he had. The disorientation that followed was not as sharp as he expected, however, and it was with minimal help that he stood. He was just about to reach out, rest a hand on Salazar’s shoulder as the other wizard rose to meet him, when something crashed into him rather unceremoniously.

It took a harsh intake of breath, akin to a sob, before he realised it was a person. He risked a glance downward and was surprised at what he saw. Or, rather, who he saw, for her presence was unmistakable. Before he could open his mouth to speak, to console her, she cried out: “Oh, Charles!”

His eyebrows furrowed. “I’m sorry, who?”

The woman in his arms pulled back immediately to survey his face, eyes wide and anxious.

It mattered not that she looked nothing like herself at that moment—that she was blue and scaled and so far removed from the fair lady he knew—the familiarity in her gaze was enough to convince him of who she was. Her eyes burned with the same, ethereal gold of the Ravenclaw family, and within her still pulsed the beautiful, enthralling him of an intellectual mind, forever on the brink of magical discovery.

Memories rose in his mind of the delicate but strong sway of her argument, her headstrong approach to beauty and how she had learnt to overcome every facet of herself. The eyes that looked back at him, however, were disparaged, insecure and offended; as alien to him as her exotic looks. Then her stare hardened, as if she was deciding something. She looked up at him as if his very presence personally insulted her, to the point where he had to take a step back from the ferocity of her gaze. Despite himself, he chuckled. _This. This is the Rowena I know._

“What do you mean, ‘who’?”

He reached out with his magic to brush against her emotions, confused as to her reaction. Just as Rowena was well-versed in her books and experiments (which he surmised was the reason for her latest cosmetic adjustment), he had always been adept at reading people; it came with the territory of being one of the wizarding world’s most experienced and celebrated duellers. Now, however, it appeared that his ability had increased ten-fold, for as he reached across to register her emotional state, he not only received them in full force, but actually _heard_ her thoughts as they flitted, feather-soft, within her mind. The sensation was a strange one, so unusual from his ability to detach from said emotions and view them with a critical eye.

Right now, her thoughts were abuzz with confusion, worry and panic, lined with a thick undertone of guilt.

Suddenly, it all made sense.

“This was one of your experiments, wasn’t it, Rowena? It must be. I can—” he huffed in amazement. “I can hear your _thoughts_.” He grinned widely at her, unperturbed, despite the sheer amount of things he did not understand at that moment. Her confusion, for one, and her guilt. Why should she be feeling guilty, when she had given him such an amazing gift? He told her as much, squeezing her hand where it sat, limply, in his.

“It’s absolutely amazing. You have to try it, replicate it somehow. Though,” and here he paused, looking troubled. “Who is this Charles person you speak of? I can see my face in your thoughts, but I do not quite understand.”

The hard look on Rowena’s face crumbled entirely as she gasped, hands flying to cover her mouth. Over the jagged lines and planes of her fingers, her yellow eyes were full of fear and pain. He tilted his head to the side, uncomprehending, but before he could voice his thoughts: _”was Charles somebody you knew, who had died?”_ a heavy hand fell on his shoulder, pulling him forcefully away from her.

Unable to provide anything but a small, indignant noise in the back of his throat, he locked eyes with Salazar. The other wizard’s gaze was solemn, and he detected a hint of anger blazing away in those dark depths. He was unsurprised by the outrage on the other man’s face, though he did wonder as to where it had come from. He seemed amicable enough when he had spoken to him. Perhaps something he had said to Rowena, or his general closeness to her, had offended him?

He threw off the dark, gnawing feeling inside of him, the one that told him that something was wrong. Salazar was perpetually angry, to the point where a look of relief, relaxation or, Merlin forbid, _happiness_ was out of place. He should not be so inclined to read into his look of anger, especially when no explanation was forthcoming.

There was something else he detected. It was a void, of sorts, where Salazar’s mind should be. Whatever the cause, it appeared that he could not penetrate his friend’s thoughts. His soul, heart, and the beautiful silver-green of his magic still took his breath away, as strong and potent as ever, but the deep connection he had with Rowena was nowhere to be found.

Instead of filling him with dread, this filled him with hope. Perhaps he wouldn’t need a counter-spell or an antidote, then, but to get Salazar to cast whatever spell he had on himself, on Rowena, so that he would no longer be privy to her thoughts or to memories of men that may upset her.

He opened his mouth to say as much, when he realised that Salazar had been speaking to him.

“I’m sorry, old friend, what was that?”

Salazar’s rage was palpable. He spoke: “Stop your games, Charles. Return to yourself.”

His eyebrows furrowed.

“You think _I_ am Charles?”

The man before him shook his head, clearly out of patience.

“No, I don’t think. I know. You are Charles Xavier, telepath. You are the brother to Raven—” he motioned to Rowena, who still looked stricken beside him. “—and you are one of us.”

He nodded enthusiastically, latching on to the last part of Salazar’s sentence and disregarding the rest. “Oh, I am definitely one of you, my friend. I will not deny my claim to magic, but I find it curious that you refer to me as somebody I most certainly am not. I have never heard of this Charles Xavier character in my life.”

Salazar’s grip on his shoulder tightened, his eyes narrowing imperceptibly. From in front of him, Rowena shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. He felt awful, and immediately attempted to withdraw the magic from himself, as he did in duels when he was struck by a sustained hex. If he could not shield Rowena, then he would remove this by willpower alone. Wandless, wordless magic was difficult to achieve, even for him, but in the heat of battle you hardly worried about such a thing. If you wanted it bad enough, it would happen. The magic would call to you and react. He wanted to remove this more than anything, to ease the suffering present in Rowena’s golden eyes.

His magic failed to rise.

It pulsed within him, answering his every request, but it was unable to pull her spell from him. For the first time since he had awoken, he felt a deep tendril of fear reach out to strike him. He gasped, feeling the breath being knocked out of him; the tide of panic so strong that it threatened to explode from him.

 _“What’s happening to me?!”_

His body careened downwards, until he was hunched forward on his knees. His hands rose to clutch at his head, desperately trying to force away the images that threw themselves at him. Fear, pain, death, Shaw, light, ripple, blue, Beast, Raven, metal, courage, mutants, fire, hell, stop, missiles, Erik—

 _Erik._

There were hands on his face, grounding him, and it was only then that the images blinked out of existence. They stayed, flat and heavy on the inside of his mind, but he was no longer bombarded by them as before. He lifted his face, searched desperately in Salazar’s eyes for any sign of familiarity or remembrance.

He found nothing.

His heart shuddered, taken aback by the all-consuming wave of sadness that descended upon him. He took a deep, shaking breath and forced himself to stare into the warm, dark eyes of a man he had known for almost his entire life, but who looked at him with no recollection of their past, of the bond between them.

“Y-You are Erik, am I correct?” he asked, shakily, already knowing but fearing the answer.

The man in front of him—the man so painfully reminiscent of his Salazar—nodded cautiously. He bowed his head in return and turned to Rowena, clasping his hands in hers. “You are Raven, my sister?”

Hope heavy in her eyes, she nodded also, and he felt another part of him sink deep into despair.

“You sound confused, Charles,” Rowe— _Raven_ said, after a time. “What’s going on?”

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He staggered backwards, away from them all, shaking his head uncontrollably. He felt weary, beaten, broken. He felt like a fool, allowing himself to hope, even though he knew all along by the confusion marring the other man’s features that this couldn’t be Salazar Slytherin, alive and well and _his_.

It still stung, more than any curse could. He would gladly take the Cruciatus if it would spare him this.

Just as suddenly, he was taken by the most overwhelming anger he had ever felt in his life. He was a volatile man at times, albeit a patient and kind one as well, who believed in equality in all classes—wizards, Halflings, muggle-borns—with a fury and ruthlessness that was unmatched by anybody but Salazar’s. The only time he had ever, truly lost control was when his friend had left him, fled at night never to be seen or heard from again.

Last time, half the grounds of Hogwarts had burned with an untameable fire.

This time, the oceans exploded as Godric Gryffindor was consumed by his rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell, this was a long chapter! In the original draft, Godric was a lot happier, to the point where he felt like he was going along with a game of sorts and amusing his friends. This, however, caused me to crash against a huge wall of writer’s block for the next chapter, as everyone was thinking the same thing: “WTF IS HAPPENING HERE?” while Godric was all: “Don’t fear, Gryffindor is here!” While this was pretty cool (and rather cute) it completely failed to capture the fact that he’d be a complete mess if he saw Salazar again, after so many years without the other man, and potentially heart-breaking when he realises that, at least for now, the man before him is not the friend he had lost. I’m not sure if I’m getting it right, but the way I see Godric is the way he’s represented in this story—he’s kind, patient and generally a good man. However, he has his flaws and is also rather volatile. With all that power, the accidental and explosive magic, it’s hard not to think of him as having a bit of a quick temper.
> 
> I tend to see Charles the same way, but that’s beside the point.
> 
> Also, and this may be confusing, but there’s a definite reason why he did not refer to himself as ‘Godric’ at any time but in passing. If it doesn’t get explained in the story, it’s simply an extension of how out of place he feels, even as he tries to convince himself that everything is fine, that the people before him really are Salazar and Rowena.
> 
> /ramblerambleramble


	5. Part IV

IV.

When the figure before him roared in anger, a sound that shook the very ground on which he stood, Erik began to return to his senses. He knew, with absolute conviction now, that this man wasn’t Charles at all. He was in Charles’ body, had Charles’ features, his eyes and his voice. But he wasn’t Charles. He couldn’t be. Charles was the perfect balance between rage and the ever elusive serenity, to the point where something catastrophic would have to occur to tilt him towards either side. Not only this, but he valued life more than anybody Erik had ever met. Even if he had a secondary mutation that allowed him to wield this kind of gift, Erik knew that Charles would never use it the way the man before him was now.

It was easy to convince himself of this, to the point where he believed it as an absolute, when the alternative—that Charles really was that unstable, impulsive and manipulative, that he was the same as him, as Raven and as all the others—disturbed him to the very core. Charles made mistakes, especially when he was stressed or unable to use his telepathy to discern what people needed as opposed to what he wanted to say, but of all his talk about being the better man, Erik had already resigned himself to the fact that Charles was the best man. The most loyal, fierce, courageous, adventurous, imperfect and downright infuriating man he had ever met.

What terrified Erik, more than the sight of the water boiling under the weight and heat of an unseen hand; of it rising, coiling in the air like a thousand tiny snakes intertwined with one another, slithering wetly as they sat, suspended; of those reptilian shapes smashing against the shoreline, steam billowing from the force of the collision as the water burned through the sand. What terrified him more than that, more than _anything_ , was the possibility that this man really was Charles, but so far removed from the man he knew and damn well loved that he was virtually unrecognisable. The thought of the life and vitality that made Charles the person he was, and the thought of that disappearing, made Erik’s entire body ache in sickness.

Charles, lost in the fade, forever gone like his parents, like Shaw and like his purpose. Even if he somehow returned to reality, things would never be the same again between them. The idea that he might never return was even more petrifying, for part of Erik—the only part worth saving—would surely die with him here, on this godforsaken beach, never to be seen or heard of again; never to wake or to stir...

Never to love the way he loved Charles.

His eyes hardened as he scanned the face of the man who had just shaken the earth, aroused the oceans and forever changed the tide of history in doing so. He couldn’t be Charles, not after that terrifying display of power. Erik had to believe that, and hold onto that belief, if he was to leave here with his sanity intact.

When the man looked up at last, bruised, beaten and exhausted, Erik felt like he was looking through a mirror to the past. He saw himself, a grief-stricken child trying (and failing) to comprehend his mother’s death, in this man’s eyes. He wondered, briefly, who it was he was mourning. This mysterious Salazar, perhaps?

He didn’t ask, didn’t feel like he had the right to.

Words arose to his lips anyway, unwelcome and unbidden and completely beyond his control.

“Are you alright?”

Hooded eyes met his, the emotion trapped within them breathtaking in its intensity. “No,” he said, simply.

Before Erik could react, before his mind could even fathom a word in which to speak, the man moved towards him in three long paces until they stood, nose to nose. He knew he should react, especially when two slender hands came to rest on either side of his helmet, tugging it up and off his head before discarding it in the sand.

He knew he should react, but he didn’t, when a pair of lips crashed against his own.

In his mind, he heard the man’s voice—heard Charles’ voice, loud and clear:

_No, my friend, I am not alright._

_But I will be._

Those words were the last thing he heard before the floodgates within his mind—floodgates he hadn’t even known existed—were thrown open and a harsh scream of words, sounds, sights and memories swam to overcome _him._

He jolted, sharply, eyes snapping open. He had only passed out for a moment, but the moment had been long enough for tears to cloud his vision, collecting in his eyes from the sheer agony of reliving the emotion that hit him. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, then rubbed at them gently with his fingers. The features of the face before him sharpened into focus, into harsh relief, and it was as if he was seeing the world in different colours.

Different, but the same. He experienced them simultaneously through the vision of the man he had always been and the man he had become, transcending the barriers of time and space, race and virtue, past and present and future coalescing into one, joining together to become him.

In that moment, that terrifying, beautiful moment, he lifted his head as two people. They blended together, openly, accepting their differences and warming to their similarities. They smiled as one.

 _Charles,_ Erik thought, warmly.

When he spoke, however, it was a different name that passed through his lips.

“Godric,” he said, as Salazar, as Erik, as everybody he was or had been since the thousand years between the two. All the voices, all the lives and all the presences. For the first time in his entire life he felt whole.

The look on the face before him, the complete and utter pleasure on Charles’—on Godric’s face—as he spoke his name both inwardly and outwardly was something he would brave a million battles just to see again.

“My friend,” the man before him spoke, softly and quietly, full of reverence and love. “Oh, my dear friend, what have we gotten ourselves into?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. I was trying to make this chapter longer, or merge it with the next part, but I'm afraid it will have to stand alone for now. Perhaps one day I'll revise this sucker and give it a more impressive word count, but until then this chapter remains woefully short. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your kudos, praise and bookmarks! <3


	6. Part V

V.

The feeling had been indescribable.

The absolute rush of power that flooded through him, the ease in which he wielded that power and the ferocity of its attack on the beach around him had staggered Charles. He was well aware that he existed not only as himself but as another, a feeling that was strange in its own right. At times, the personalities would blur together until he couldn’t see where he ended and where the other— _Godric, his name was?_ —began, but for the most part they remained separate, an act in which he couldn’t help but think was his mind protecting him from the sheer amount of information, experience, sense and touch this other man held.

It was... odd, to say the least. Any intrusion should have been unwelcome, unbidden, but the weight of Godric’s presence at the back of his head was like a wash of calm after a brutal, unforgiving day. He understood the man without ever having to explore his mind. Godric had twisted and shaped the raw power that echoed from his soul in a way that was both elegant and inept, which meant he clearly had experience in using it, but at the same time suggested that it was something even the strongest and fastest learner would never entirely get used to. It was the same mixture of uncertainty and elation that Charles felt when using his telepathy.

They were all struggling to find their place in the world, and while Godric’s presence suggested that that place may be bigger and far more dangerous than previously suggested, Charles couldn’t help but be thrilled all the same.

He looked up, his eyes meeting Erik’s. His friend looked back at him with unguarded compassion, but at the same time with a sorrow that made his heart ache for him. This was Salazar, Erik’s counterpart to the voice in Charles’ own head. Godric and Salazar. He wondered, more than anything, what their relationship was. The ease in which Godric had slipped towards Erik, took his face in his hands and kissed him made Charles’ cheeks grow red. He knew that Erik felt something for him—the same deep resonance that Charles felt whenever he saw the other man—but they had only begun to understand what it had meant. Now, it all became clear.

 _I’m not sure what’s happening here, Charles._ Erik projected the thought as strongly as if he had actually come out and said it. The feeling of being able to connect with his mind after having lost it to that godforsaken helmet was unparalleled, even by the wonderment of Godric’s ability. He felt rather than saw Erik’s smile, as while he lingered with him at the back of his head, Godric and Salazar were staring at one another, their emotions indecipherable without the knowledge of where they came from and why they were there.

As shallow as it may seem, Charles could hardly bring himself to care about anything but Erik, about the near miss they had with the missiles and how he would have lost the other man so completely if he had been allowed to let them hit. They had saved the world from a far greater evil today, and he thought he had the right to be a little bit selfish about his priorities. He responded to Erik, also by thought: _Neither do I._

_But I am glad to have you back, Erik._

Erik mused on his words, and while he didn’t project any thoughts or feelings towards Charles, the telepath still picked up brief flashes of what was on his mind—ambition, control and the name Magneto. He let the fragments go, scattering them in the Cuban wind around them, gone but not forgotten. He and Erik would speak, later, once they were truly alone with no bystanders, no barriers and, most importantly, no threats.

It was then that Godric took a step back, perhaps realising the urgency of that last thought. Charles still didn’t understand the specifics, or how he was supposed to describe the man who resided in his head, for he was most certainly a part of him but an unfamiliar one, a mystery wrapped in an enigma, surrounded by the unexplainable.

“Whatever’s happening to us, Erik,” he said, softly, to the man in front of him. There was a dynamic shift on Erik’s face and all at once he knew he was talking to his friend, not Godric’s. “We need to get out of here.”

Erik nodded, curtly, and stood. Charles stood with him, bracing a hand on his shoulder. Together, they turned to face the rag-tag group of both his and Shaw’s men with determination and ease.

Erik spoke, voice booming as loud as ever, and Charles supposed that this was what he had been thinking about; the ambition, power and charisma that were Erik’s alter ego, Magneto.

“Brothers and sisters,” Erik began, his speech resonating the same authority and warmth as the last. “As you have seen before you, all is not as it seems. There are powers that exist beyond our control, beyond theirs—” he motioned to the human battlements scattered across the oceans, immobile as they were with fear and anticipation, “—and in order to discover exactly what those powers are and how to wield them, we must unite as one.”

Erik looked over at him, eyes wild and impassioned, and Charles didn’t think he had ever seen anything more beautiful. The other man nodded at him and Charles allowed his hand to fall from Erik’s shoulder, to stand on his own as he continued their appeal to allies and enemies alike.

“Erik and I have different views, to the point where they oppose one another. I believe in peaceful cohabitation between mutants and humans, whereas Erik believes that as the next stage in human evolution, we should rise to rule,” after allowing that fact to settle into their minds for a moment, the severity and importance of it, he added: “At this very moment, none of that matters.”

“What matters,” said Erik, continuing perfectly from Charles line of thought as if he were the real telepath, “is that we stand here before you together, united in our wish, in our demand to understand what has happened here today. I think Charles’ beliefs are a pipedream, and he thinks mine will make me the very figure I loath to become, but if we can work together in spite of this, so can you. We carry no arms against one another.”

He looked over again, eyes blazing. “Not anymore, at least.”

Charles grinned in response, felt the swell of Godric’s pride and warmth as well as his own. Before he could speak again, to continue the flow of words between them, somebody else spoke.

“What do you mean by power?” asked Angel, her gossamer wings fluttering slowly in the harsh winds. Her voice, while full of hostility, also carried something else: curiosity. It was this that inspired Charles to answer her.

 _Let me,_ the soft voice at the back of his head spoke. Charles nodded inwardly at it.

He turned to Erik, whose eyes had remained on his even after Angel spoke. He reached out with his hand and Charles took it in his. “You ready for this?” he asked with a sideward glance.

A smile stretched upon Erik’s lips: “Let’s find out.”

They raised their free hands as one, and the world around them shifted.

*

Charles opened his eyes, unaware that he had closed them, and found himself in front of the Xavier Mansion at Westchester. Erik’s wayward smile turned into a grin when he saw it. “It looks like we consider the same place to be home,” he said, clearly amused. Charles felt his face warm when he heard the word _home_ uttered from the other man’s lips. Having witnessed all that Erik experienced during this life, he knew how abstract the concept of home was to him. Home was something he had lost, a long time ago, along with his innocence and the warm embrace of a loving mother. While Charles’ childhood was anything but embracing, his parents cold and distant, he at least had Raven to soften the harsh blow of loneliness and neglect. Erik had had nobody.

 _But now he has you,_ a voice echoed from the back of his head.

With each new release of power, Charles found himself another step closer to understanding the man who shared residence in his mind. Already, Godric’s voice was becoming his own and it felt less like he was surrendering or taking control of his own body when the other man came forward or drew back. He wondered, briefly, if Erik felt the same, but decided that it was a conversation for another day.

While Charles and Erik had adjusted to their change in surroundings fairly well, the rest of their group appeared to experience mixed emotions. Moira, Sean and Alex had reeled at the sudden change in location, but settled down once they realised where they were. Raven appeared confused and astounded, but didn’t speak. She simply stared at the two of them with an unreadable look in her eyes, the same way that Hank was currently surveying the hilltops surrounding the mansion with the trained eye of a scientist, no doubt attempting to explain away the tide of power that had flown forth from their outstretched hands to circle around them with facts and figures. Charles mused that, despite his own scientific standpoint as a professor in genetics, he found it doubtful that Hank would find anything. He could explain the finer points of mutation, but there was nothing in the handbook that rationalised this. This—this was something different, something more. Charles could feel it in the air all around them, the way the atmosphere was tense and heavy with the unnameable power that crackled at their fingertips.

It was different, it was more, it was...

Well, magical.

He turned towards the newcomers, shaking off the thought. Angel no longer looked adamant or hostile, as her surprise had stripped that from her. The curiosity on her face was tenfold, however, as she gazed at them hungrily. Azazel and Riptide, ever the outsiders, stood next to her with indecipherable expressions.

Allowing his grip on Erik’s hand to loosen, he made his way towards the two.

“You don’t look surprised,” he said, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Why?”

Azazel smirked before speaking, his voice a low, deep hum. “This is nothing I haven’t seen before, comrade. Like you, I am not of this world. This power you have, this magic? It is not special.”

Charles nodded, filing away the information for future use. “Where are you from, then?”

Azazel tilted his head to the side, staring down at him with an inquisitive look. “I am a demon, summoned to Earth. I am, as you wizards call it, a being of the Dark Arts.”

This caused Charles’ eyebrows to furrow. As quickly as the question began to form on his lips, however, his need to speak them disappeared. Whereas a moment ago he understood nothing of what Azazel was talking about, in this moment he processed the words perfectly. “Who summoned you?” he asked, after a beat. “Shaw?”

Azazel nodded.

That was enough for him, for now. Charles turned to Riptide, who had remained a silent observer throughout their conversation. In the end, it was Azazel who spoke for him.

“Janos cannot speak. Shaw cursed him to guarantee his loyalty and while I am of magical descent, I cannot remove it. Not without burning his face off.” The last words were added with a slight frown. Of all the things that had been said and done that day, this was the one that surprised Charles the most. For whatever reason, be it camaraderie or something deeper, Azazel cared for the silent witness beside him. From the disquiet within him, Charles knew that Godric didn’t think demons _could_ care.

He jolted back into the present once he realised Azazel was speaking to him again. “If you wish for us to join you, even simply because you do not want us to kill or oppose you, you may prove your good intentions by removing this curse. Considering you have just participated in not only wandless, but wordless magic, I believe you are strong enough to do so.”

Azazel grinned, wide and wicked.

“The choice is yours, comrade.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. There’s more to come, especially regarding the consequences of their actions this chapter. I also hope that everybody is in character, especially Azazel. Thanks for all the hits, kudos, bookmarks and, of course, the commenters. Every single one of these things pushes me to write.


	7. Part VI

VI.

In a word, the curse that bound the storm-bringer looked _terrifying_. 

Thick, black rings of pulsating magic spanned across its victim’s neck, tightening inexorably whenever the man attempted to speak. Despite his disgust, Salazar was impressed. The magic used to bind this man was the darkest he had ever seen, akin to if he had had his tongue ripped out. Moreover, when his hands drew closer to the dark circle, the drone of its core became unbearable; a harsh ringing in his head, forcing him to pull away in agony. 

When he had contained himself long enough to assess the situation, still shaken by the sensory overload, the magic had defied experience again and the buzzing transformed into the familiar hum of his own magic, drawing him closer, directly into the curse’s line of fire. _Self-aware, malicious and scathing,_ he thought. 

_Terrifying._

Salazar clenched his jaw and fought hard against the urge to give in. He cast the strongest binding charm he knew to contain the dark magic that had thickened the air with its illustrious scent, but to no avail. It swam straight through it, cold and calculating in its power as it silently mocked him; poisoned barbs against the longing that stirred in his chest. Salazar _liked_ terrifying. It was, after all, the only way to secure friendships within the Slytherin house—enforcing your power over others, watching them bow down to you as their commander, rising to rule as dictated by his ancestors, by the thrum of magic in his blood. All of it, every last wisp of obedience and camaraderie, came from that magic. From _this_ magic, calling him closer, fuelling the fire that burned in his chest.

Godric had long since attempted to sway him from this view, remarking in his unusual way about how friendship was about warmth, affection and common interest, not personal gain. But Salazar wasn’t convinced. Even now—as he faced off against the clear and present threat that the magic posed—it seemed like the only way.

After all, they had never exactly been... friends.

He gritted his teeth against the onslaught of darkness, the thick bands of black tightening its grip. It threw him forward and disarmed his control over it in one fell swoop, forcing him back where he stood, winded, while the curse remained strong in front of him. He pushed his thoughts to the back of his head with a violent grunt, and threw himself into unravelling the crystalline length at the curse’s core. He had more important things to worry about now, more important things than wondering what Godric Gryffindor and his infernal smile meant to him, and how friendship had nothing to do with the dark swell of possession eating away at his heart.

 _The curse,_ an insistent voice in the back of his head reminded him. _Remove the curse._

Salazar had had his doubts in the beginning about the lingering presence that suffocated his consciousness like thick, unyielding smog. But this other man, this Erik, was far more interesting than he had ever considered. Without any knowledge of the existence of magic or his pure-blooded heritage, Erik had seized control over power, held it in a tight grip and pushed it to the limit. He could see the images before him, the memories. Even without the knowledge or experience of Salazar and his ancestors, this man had still become a Slytherin. 

He was also in danger of becoming—if both his _and_ Godric’s definition of the word were correct—a friend. Perhaps the first friend, corporeal or otherwise, that Salazar had ever had. It was with this in mind that he heeded Erik’s voice with a curt, inward nod. Despite his acceptance of this new life, past and time, it was still surreal. Even in the Wizarding World, hearing voices was never a good sign. But Erik wasn’t a voice, he was real. Just like Salazar had been, as Godric was...

...and, he thought, with renewed determination, as real as the soldier suffering before him from the unseen hand of a dead master; suffering, from magic that should not have been used this way. 

It was with this thought, and the pulse of anger that accompanied it, that Salazar vanquished the magic from his hands and from the throat of the storm-bringer in front of him. He wanted nothing to do with it, not if it came from this monster, this Sebastian Shaw. Salazar would respect no man that resorted to cursing his subjects to encourage obedience. It was indolence. Shaw’s influence over his warriors through spells and contracts was something Salazar would seize with but a simple word, infused with the magic behind it to influence, not control. Cursed subjects, ignited by fear and rage, would abandon you at the first sign of a better option; willing subjects, who clung onto your ever word, would be more inclined to stay. No, this Shaw was admirable, but a fool. If anybody deserved to hold the will and might of this man, it was Salazar Slytherin.

Debt, after all, was a stronger tool than fear. 

At least, it was when _they_ were the ones in debt to _him._

He chanced a side-long glance to the left at the thought, only to discover that Godric’s eyes were fixated solely on his, lit from the inside with wonderment. Salazar faltered slightly, thrown completely off guard by the emotion blazing away in their depths. It was something he thought he would never see again from this man, any hope of it almost certainly eradicated after the row they had, the events that forced him out of his home and into the wilds.

Pride.

Godric Gryffindor—the strongest, brightest star of them all, in both heart and mind and balance—was proud of him.

Salazar’s body committed the greatest betrayal when his lips twisted upward into a smile. But the risk was worth it, he realised, when he received an absolutely stunning grin in response, an expression of delight that completely transformed the face in front of him. Salazar felt warmth for the first time in years, so hard that it shook him. Godric’s hand secured itself on his shoulder as he watched on in excitement and anticipation.

The man before him released a choked gasp, drawing Salazar’s attention away from the heat pooling in his stomach. The storm-bringer’s hands flew to his throat in shock, as if he had spent his entire life submerged in the Black Lake, unable to breathe in fear of drowning, and had only just been reunited with the surface. He struggled with the concept of speech as he stared at Salazar with wide, bottomless eyes full of unfathomable emotion.

His demon friend rested a hand on his shoulder, an echo of how tightly Godric had gripped his only moments before, and commanded the shorter man to speak. He spluttered, unable to form even the most basic of sounds, but it was noise as opposed to silence and the tension that lined the small group’s shoulders relaxed as one.

Then, in a motion that appeared to shock them all—himself included—the man spoke:

“A-Azazel,” said he, his voice hoarse from disuse. “I c-can...”

The demon, Azazel, raised an eyebrow in amusement. Beyond that, however, Salazar sensed the deep contentment that resonated inside him. “Speak?” he finished. The man nodded. “Yes, comrade, you can.”

Eyes wide with astonishment, the man looked up, locking eyes with him and Godric, whose hand had now risen to encircle his wrist. “I am Janos Quested,” he said, clearing his throat with a hacking cough, “and I am in your debt.”

 _Yes,_ Salazar thought, _you most definitely a—_

“No, you’re not,” said Godric, and he could have throttled him.

Oblivious to the frustration that pulsated from Salazar’s very core, Godric continued to speak to the newly freed man before him. “You owe us nothing, not for this at least,” he said, softly. “What happened at the CIA base, however, is an entirely different story. We have much to discuss, especially if you plan on staying here.”

It was with those words that Salazar realised how wrong he had been. This wasn’t Godric speaking at all. It was the other man. Erik’s man. His voice was full of caution rather than rough bravado and his tone was softer, clearer than the words that emanated from Godric’s chest like the roar of the lion he had become. There were similarities, yes, but now that he knew who was who, the differences were alarmingly clear. 

Despite knowing that this man wasn’t his, his words caused Salazar’s skin to flush. Something about that softly spoken, well-read tone rooted him to the spot, until all he wanted to do with himself was stand there and listen; to the man’s voice, to the words on the tip of his tongue and the echo of those words in the minds of all he touched, the vibrant world that surrounded them, opened itself up to them through this man.

 _That,_ Erik said with a flourish, _is Charles Xavier._

Salazar’s lips lifted into a smirk, even as he realised that Charles was going against everything he had planned to gain from this encounter. To Erik, he said: “I approve.”

Erik hummed in agreement. _So do I, though I’ll never tell him that. His ego is big enough as it is._

Salazar cocked an eyebrow. This man was getting closer and closer to describing Godric with every word.

*

After his discussion with the newcomers, Charles went around designating rooms in his gigantic, castle-like abode. He also, as far as Salazar could tell, attempted to smooth over the issues that the numerous parties had with one another. It appears that his and Godric’s untimely arrival had shocked the group into obedience—until they set foot into the house, that is. The three boys— _Hank, Alex and Sean,_ Erik told him—refused to come anywhere near him or their new guests, while the girl with the blue skin smiled wanly at him when he passed her, but watched Azazel, Janos and their female companion with the same suspicion as everybody else. Not for the first time, Salazar wondered what had happened before he and Godric had arrived in their vessels. Whenever he broached the subject with Erik, however, all he received in response was a stiffness that he had not yet encountered.

Erik, it seemed, was unwilling to provide the answers he sought.

He was, however, strangely content allowing Salazar to take over their shared body and even now, the lines between the two of them were blurred. Just as he was receiving the flashes of colour, sound and sight that Erik was inadvertently submitting, he himself felt the other man attempting to process the idea of magic in all of its numerous and life-changing forms. Soon, when he looked up at Godric, he no longer saw the Gryffindor. Instead, it was as if he had been hit with a Confundus charm; there were two of them, present in the same body. Godric...

...and Charles.

Salazar’s rather severe reaction to Charles Xavier was a mystery in itself. Whenever the man would approach him with an easy-going smile that was the picture of innocence to the crimes of his past, Salazar could feel himself drawing closer to him. When Charles asked him softly whether he would like a tour of the house, his mouth had already formed his assent before his mind had a chance to even consider it. Erik treated the entire situation with an air of amusement, in a way that spoke of personal experience with this facet of Charles’ personality. Salazar wondered, not for the first time, what had happened between the two of them, as even through the hilarity of watching him stumble and stammer at Charles there was a devastating air of tension when Erik thought of him.

 _Pain and anger and love,_ he realised with a start as Charles tugged on his sleeve and Salazar felt a rush of tantalising warmth flood through him. _Yes, this I understand all too well, my friend._

Then he resisted the urge to slam his head against the gilded frame of the portrait Charles was showing him when it registered that he was talking to Erik the same way Godric talked to him. Salazar had felt nothing but warmth while with Erik to the point where it was becoming close to affection and by the way both of them reacted towards Charles and the prospect of unlimited power for their respective races, he knew they had common interests.

But, there was nothing for him to gain from this. Except, perhaps, control over a shared vessel. But even as he thought that, Salazar knew that wasn’t true. In a way, he and Erik felt like the same person, to the point where even he, as mad for control as he was, would relinquish it in an instant for the soul that dwelled within him.

Were they...

No, it was impossible, but—

Were they really becoming _friends_? 

He had considered it before, of course, but he had never truly understood what it could mean. Now, it was all he could think of, so much so that it even drowned out Charles. He followed the shorter man through a maze of corridors, mind consumed by the frightening possibility that Godric was right, that friendship didn’t have to be about personal gain or a fight for dominance. That he might coexist with Erik, get to know him better, become allies and find happiness in their debates and theories.

It was only when he felt a hand grip his that Salazar drew away from his reverie.

Charles stared up at him with eyes so blue that even Erik caught his breath. He held their hand in both of his, heat pressing against it in the places where his skin touched theirs. It was incredibly difficult to distinguish between him and Erik now, and he felt the other man’s presence become awash with his. 

“I know this is difficult for you, for both of you,” Charles began, still disarming them with his stare. “More than anyone, I know. While I would suggest nothing more than retiring for the rest of the day to clear our minds, my other half has plans of a different nature. Considering my ability as a telepath, I can discern between the two of you even when you cannot. Godric has requested that he speak to Salazar alone, and if you are willing I can make sure that it happens. It would be like putting you to sleep, Erik,” he added, his tone changing slightly when he addressed Salazar’s counterpart. “I have given Godric directions on how to wake us up when he’s done.”

For the first time, Salazar felt a direct conflict between he and Erik. While he was anxious at the prospect of speaking to Godric alone—truly alone, with no peace of mind to help him through it—he was not overly opposed to the idea. Erik, for whatever reason, was. While his feelings towards Charles were mixed and he largely admired the other man’s abilities, Erik couldn’t help but feel that if he fell asleep, he would never wake.

 _I wouldn’t let that happen,_ Salazar said, firmly. _You have more right to this body than I—or Charles—does._

He had thought the words without any influential magic behind them, partly because he wasn’t sure if it would even work on Erik, but mostly because it hadn’t even occurred to him to do so. Somehow, even without the tantalising power, Salazar felt the din in his mind calm as Erik’s trepidation subsided.

Then, miraculously, they opened their mouth and said:

“Do it.”

*

Though he would never admit to it, Salazar was full of nervous energy as Godric pulled him away from the middle of the corridor towards Charles’ room. It buzzed like the drone of a thousand bees as he followed him through the maze that stretched out on either side of him, disturbingly unending but rather reminiscent of Hogwarts. When they reached their destination—one of the many wooden doors set into the walls either side of them—Godric ushered him through into a truly impressive room. With an idle wave of his hand, Salazar closed the door through the resonating metal in the handle and its hinges, marvelling at this power that was so much like magic, but not magic at all. _Mutation,_ his mind supplied, and this time it was all his own thought.

At the back of his mind, Erik was completely still.

He could, if he tried, reach inwards to touch the presence that now lingered at the very back of his head, but it was painstakingly difficult to do so. He had done it once, just to make sure, and felt a wave of contentment echo from Erik. Wherever he was and whatever he was doing, he seemed to be all right. This was enough for Salazar, who abandoned the thought in favour of being decidedly pessimistic about Godric’s motives.

“You don’t need to worry, Salazar,” Godric said all of a sudden, his lips tugging upwards into a small smile. “I’m not going to kill you, or any of the numerous and rather depressing things you are thinking right now.”

“H-How—?”

Godric shrugged. “I believe Charles said: 'you have your tricks, I have mine'?”

Then, before Salazar could even fathom a reply, Godric wrapped an arm around his waist, smiled warmly, and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Our mysterious Harry Potter guest makes an appearance.


	8. Part VII

VII.

_There were four of them, standing in a semi-circle on a rocky outcropping overlooking the sea. Hands clenched tightly around wands whose cores were pulsating vibrantly, ringing with the awe-inspiring power of their wielders. In the free hand of one of the four was a sleek, engraved sword that shone both silver and red in the light of the setting sun. Fingers tightened in a white-knuckled grip around its hilt as its owner watched the roiling ocean in silent anticipation and despair. They were not ready for this, not ready at all..._

_The figure, a man, turned to his companions. The orange-pink-gold hue of the darkening sky set colours awash in his dark brown hair, but his blue eyes blazed with a fire that was from the heart. His determination assailed the deep, sweeping sadness that had formed in his chest and, after a long and brutal battle of wills, overcame it._

_They had to do this. For themselves, for one another, and for the world._

_“This ends here tonight,” he said, voice booming with the strength of his purpose. “Rowena?”_

_The woman beside him nodded, red hair curling around her exotic blue skin. She had not wholly adapted to this form as of yet—so used was she to her long, dark hair and pale skin—but the experience was one she would not change for the world. To her leader, she spoke, nodding curtly to the three as she did so: “We cannot let the school fall under any circumstance, and I for one will die trying if I must.”_

_The man smiled at her reassuringly and she returned the smile with one of her own. Rowena turned to the second of the three, the woman by her side staring pensively out to sea. “Helga?”_

_With a look on her face as soft and peaceful as a dream, she bowed her head. “I am ready.”_

_His smile grew at her answer, at the tranquillity of her voice. Then, without missing a beat, he turned to the final member of their small but capable team. The happiness did not drain from his face at the sight of the other man, but his blue eyes deepened with caution. “Salazar?” he asked at last, voice barely a whisper in the evening breeze._

_Salazar raised an eyebrow, watched him stonily, and said nothing. His silence crippled the shorter man, forcing his strained smile into a despairing frown. His shoulders slumped ever so slightly, as if sensing the futility in pressing the issue any further. After a long pause, during which both women’s eyes had flown to his face also, Salazar drew in a deep breath and spoke: “I will fight for our people.”_

_“And for them?” asked Rowena, her voice soft, as if afraid of the answer she would receive. “All of them?”_

_While he flinched sharply, Salazar’s head lowered into a nod._

_Then, he smirked: “How can I not fight? You would all surely perish without me.”_

_His tone of voice caused the man by his side to jerk his head up, meeting Salazar’s eyes for the first time since he had spoken. His brow was furrowed, but there was a new fire burning away behind his blue eyes. Underneath that, layered between confusion and loneliness, was a deep, unrelenting hurt that he dare not share with the world. That was an issue between he and Salazar alone. Nobody else would be privy to it._

_“Godric, a word?”_

_He remained completely unsurprised by Salazar’s request, despite not knowing what the outcome of ‘a word’ might be. Godric followed him still as he paced away from the outcropping towards a thick blanket of trees, where they continued to walk until he found himself surrounded by the forest, and the two women were but a pinprick of colour in the distance. It was only then that Salazar turned to him, his hands coming to rest heavily against Godric’s shoulders all of a sudden, pushing him forward into the other man’s space._

_“You are a fool,” said Salazar, darkly. Godric shuddered as his warm breath curled against his cheek, but said nothing in response to the insult. When he continued, Salazar’s voice picked up in speed until he reached a fevered pitch, his eyes shut and jaw clenched in anger: “You are also a liar. You broke every promise you ever made to me, all the while making more in their stead. I cannot look at you without wanting to curse you. My blood boils when you speak, an echo of how I feel when you actually attempt to carry out a conversation with me. You are infuriating, you are mind-numbingly insensitive and yet, even when I tell you this, you persist in asking favours. I am sick of this, and I am sick of you! I am not a weapon you can use and discard, I am not a plan to be forfeited at the first sign of trouble and I am most certainly not your friend!”_

_Upon bellowing the last two words, Salazar threw him back, forcefully. Godric stumbled, the power behind the push sending him tripping end-over-end over a fallen branch until he collided painfully with the trunk of the tree it belonged to. His head snapped forward from where it slammed against the wood and the world became a dizzying array of lights and colours. Through the haze, he could see Salazar advance on him, green eyes narrowed in rage._

_Deep within his gut, spreading rapidly, Godric Gryffindor felt the first tendrils of fear._

_He didn’t move and, after a moment, he couldn’t._

_There was nowhere for him to run, nowhere to hide. The sword was nowhere to be found and his wand had been dislodged during his fall whereas Salazar, still moving ominously forward, still held his in a white-knuckled grip. The wand rose until it was just beside his face, where the Slytherin flicked it without a single spoken word or incantation. Godric remained dazed and confused, unable to determine exactly what Salazar had done until the tree behind him sprang to life, its branches unfolding to loop around Godric’s arms and pull them sharply upwards. He grunted at the burn of his stretched muscles as another, thicker branch pinned his head to the trunk behind him, weaving itself around his neck like a collar pulled taunt. In a heart-stopping moment, where he could do nothing but watch in abject horror as Salazar approached, the ground shuddered deeply and the roots of the same tree flew out and around his ankles. They threaded themselves around his feet and tightened, rendering him completely immobile._

_Salazar lowered his wand and approached him with quicker, more confident steps. Godric was completely bound, helpless against whatever violence the man before him saw fit to inflict. Still, he refused to falter, and raised his head as high as it would go, ignoring the sharp pain resonating at the back of his skull despite how much it hurt._

_He stared up at Salazar with wide, terrified blue eyes while the rest of his face twisted in determination. He was a Gryffindor and, regardless of how deep the betrayal cut him, he would die like one—brave to the bitter end._

_He ignored the fear, the dread and the sharp need to struggle against his bonds. He couldn’t fight, not like this._

_Not when it was just the two of them._

_Salazar drew close to him, pushing straight through his personal space until their bodies were flush against one another. Despite himself and the anxiety that churned in his gut, Godric felt himself react to the proximity, his face burning in mortification at the prospect. Salazar tutted. “My dear Godric, do you ever think with your head?”_

_He didn’t respond, didn’t dare to. His lip quivered slightly, betraying the emotions he tried so desperately not to show, a tantalising mix of frustration, fear, anger and resignation. Salazar saw this and shifted forward, biting down sharply. The gesture caused Godric to gasp in response, and that was the only invitation his captor needed before drawing forward and taking Godric’s lips with his own. Fire exploded across his body, pooling downwards as Salazar deepened the kiss, plundering his mouth with a ferocity reserved for only the most passionate moments between them._

_Godric fought against his restraints, this time to wrap his arms around the man before him, but they would not relent. Instead of sending fear up his spine, however, it only fuelled his arousal._

_All too quickly, Salazar pulled away, the movement causing Godric to surge forward as far as the branches binding him would allow. He let out a small moan of discontent, which only served to widen the smirk across the Slytherin’s face. Godric’s cheeks burned. It felt like his entire body was on fire, this time from shame. Once again, he had allowed the other man to get to him. He had trusted him, allowed him to draw in closer, dismissing any and all gut instinct he had in hope that maybe this time Salazar would prove him wrong. But he never did._

_“I expected more from you,” he said, lowly. When he received no response, Godric lifted his head to stare into the other man’s eyes. “You know what we’re up against here. We can’t afford to be enemies, not here.”_

_After a long pause, in which the two gazed at one another, attempting to discern the emotion in the other man’s eyes, Salazar spoke. “You are not my enemy, Godric. Being my enemy implies that you have some sort of power, that you and I are matched. As you can see—” he waved in a broad arch with his free hand, “—this is not so. You are completely powerless against me, and you will remain that way for what little life you have left to live.”_

_Salazar’s words knocked the breath out of Godric’s lungs. “No, please! Don’t do this!”_

_He knew the moment he spoke the words that they would have no effect, no matter how hard he pleaded. He felt moisture across his cheeks, and it took him a long pause before he realised that he was crying. Begging. In a small corner of his mind, he understood why he was fighting so hard for this. Not for him, or for his life. That didn’t matter to him whatsoever. No, he was fighting for that golden thread that existed between the two of them, the last trace of the good inside his friend. If Salazar killed him, there was no coming back._

_The good would be gone, and so would the person he loved most in the entire world._

_Godric continued to beg, even as Salazar raised his wand to perform a timed curse in which the tree binding his body would slowly begin to crush him, to suffocate him where he stood. He knew this because, in an off corner of his mind, Godric could hear Salazar explain it to him as he worked, entwining the strands of the spell—the pulsating, dark magic that scathed his skin at the very touch—into the bonds that held him._

_After the curse was complete, Salazar continued to speak. How this would be nothing but a tragic accident, how he would return to the others and claim that the very beast they were there to kill had already maimed him before he had a chance to stop it. When Godric, shakily, lifted his head to ask: “Why?” Salazar just laughed._

_“Why?” he repeated, voice coated with amusement. “You know why.”_

_He said nothing. Immediately, Salazar spat, voice full of spite: “Them. Those filthy Mudbloods. With Godric Gryffindor dead, Hogwarts will only have three founders, and you know that Rowena and Helga eat out of the palm of your hand. Without you, they will be consumed by grief, long enough for me to take care of the Muggles that are polluting our school, infecting our classrooms and our home with their toxic ideals. Without you, I will become headmaster and teach the new generation the true meaning of power.”_

_Stunned into silence, Godric could not find a word to say that would counteract Salazar’s words. His mind was a flurry of thought, flitting from one word to the next, the entire process painted in a thick, black veil of horror. No. No, he couldn’t. He_ wouldn’t. _He had promised, among reverent touches and the soft press of lips on his that he would never, ever hurt him. Not even in sacrifice for his ideals, for the ‘greater good’ he always hoped to achieve for the Wizarding World and its occupants. He had promised him._

_Before he could speak, before he could open his mouth to verbally speak the words screaming in his head, a hand grazed the side of his face. Without thought, he leaned into the touch. His eyes were wide with emotion as he glanced up at the man that towered before him, the pads of his fingers rubbing smooth, calming circles into his flushed skin. Any coherent thought was cut off quickly and surely by the press of lips against his own as Salazar bent his head low, face resting against Godric’s as he embraced the shorter man._

_His breath was hot in Godric’s ear, and a shiver ran down the Gryffindor’s spine as a result._

_“Goodbye, my friend.”_

_Then he pulled away, and disappeared into the black._

_Leaving Godric Gryffindor bound and completely defenceless, to face his death alone._

*

A blinding ray of sunshine shattered the hold the dream had over the lone figure confined to a bed on the opposite side of the yawning, empty room. He found himself unable to move, shaken as he was from the intensity of the dream, the sharp feeling of panic that gripped him as he recalled the fevered pitch of the man—of Godric’s—terror. The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine that squeezed at his extremities, tightening his chest until he could barely breathe. He had dreamt many dreams in his life, but never one as vivid and as real as this.

Indeed, the only time he had felt something similar to the tidal wave of pain and emotion that gathered in his throat, the dream had come to pass a week later in the most devastating way possible. Bloodied bodies; the thick, acrid smell of death; and his face, weathered with exhaustion as he stood on the battlefield. 

Much like the four in his dream, he had clenched tightly to the wand in his hand, ready to duel to the death against the only person he had ever allowed himself to grow close to, to love. His dearest friend, his deepest lover, whose face had contorted in rage at his betrayal, even as it was _he_ who had been betrayed first.

The sun shone harshly through the worn, stained glass windows as he stirred. With the light’s incentive, it did not taking him long to find his way into his office, where he shivered slightly over a glowing, marble basin. Placing his wand against his aging temple, he withdrew the memory, watching it swirl amongst the others in the pensive.

It was only then—as the dream swam safely, without threat of being forgotten—that Albus Dumbledore sighed.

He had waited a long time for this, but finally the wait was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I had a completely different structure set out in my head for this chapter—a longer one, really. It involved Dumbledore being notified by the Ministry in America, but I felt that it was too clunky, that it pulled away from the emotion-based atmosphere of the piece. So I wrote up this little ditty, and I find that I much prefer it to my original plans. As usual, I’d love to hear your opinion on it.
> 
> Also, yes. I do realise that having seen the entirety of that dream does, in a way, make Dumbledore a huge pervert for when Salazar was cracking onto Godric back there. But hey, can you blame him? Those guys are hot.
> 
> Also, please don’t beat me with large, pointy sticks because Salazar was an asshole?


	9. Part VIII

VIII.

Godric drew away from Salazar with a hum of contentment, only to start when the taller man surged forward to claim his mouth once more. Sighing into the kiss, Godric allowed his eyes to fall closed at the feeling of Salazar’s hands lingering in his hair, fingers sweeping through the soft curls at the back of his neck, squeezing gently in a way that sent red-hot bursts of pleasure through his blood. Breathlessly and with great reluctance, Godric lifted his hands to Salazar’s shoulders and pushed him away with a jerk far harsher than he had intended. With an apologetic smile, he withdrew completely, the loss of contact stinging like the biting wind.

Indignation swept through him, a venomous howl from a traitorous body that would have him move forward rather than away. He wanted to, more than ever, but even as his mind formed the thought he knew where this would end, and it wasn’t in the arms of the man who set his skin to flame, no matter how often he wished it was.

His body’s call was strong, but he resisted.

Just.

Salazar watched the conflict playing on his face with a look both forlorn and perplexed, shades of emotion bleeding into his otherwise stony expression. But he did not move, and Godric knew without thinking (knew without the amazing echo of thought and intent in his head, quietened as it was by the intense concentration it took on both their parts to keep Charles and Erik contained in their peaceful, slumbering state) that Salazar was grappling with the exact same moral difficulty as he was. While familiar, the body in which he resided was hardly his own, a fact he could hardly ignore even without Charles’ lingering presence. He was the visitor here, the stranger, even as he felt with every fibre of his being that he was home; that this was where he needed to be, _who_ he needed to be.

The hands that pressed against Salazar’s chest, the lips that ached for the pressure of his kiss and the legs that stood, shaking, against the wall weren’t his. Not anymore.

Charles had given them complete privacy, a display of trust that did not go unnoticed to Godric. But to go any further than a kiss when the rightful owner of the body he was in had not a single inkling as to what was happening? He did not have to be from this time or place to know that it was wrong.

When he had stood in a pillowed white at the back of their shared mind, he had seen the way in which Charles and Erik spoke to one another, the tenderness and budding affection that burned in their hearts. But to feel love for somebody and to admit that love were two completely different acts. Charles loved Erik, certainly, with the same blind intensity that Godric had once felt for Salazar before war and disparity tore the two of them apart, but the words hung unspoken between the two, the tension unresolved. What they had was a beautiful, fragile thing and Godric could not— _would not_ —be responsible for taking that away from them.

The green-blue haze of Salazar’s eyes, heavy as they were with desire and aggression, suggested that he too felt the same. So they stood at an impasse, deadlocked in a battle of wills until one of them either drew away or launched his body forward. In the end it was Salazar who took an unsteady step backwards, retreating to sit on the corner of the bed. Godric remained standing, even as he felt his knees threaten to buckle beneath him.

Silence permeated every corner of the room, thick and unrelenting, and for a moment they simply existed.

“Will you ever forgive me, for leaving you?”

Godric lifted his eyes to find Salazar staring at a place just beyond his right shoulder, adamant in maintaining his pride while simultaneously avoiding eye contact. He was at a loss for words, the question having caught him completely off guard. Any answer he could give was complicated at best, like a garden of roses both beautiful and prim, but possessing thorns an inch thick. Godric found himself retreating into his own mind for protection against the serrated edges, but the weight of the question—and the answer asked of him—remained. 

The truth, in all its earth-shattering glory, was that the man before him had been forgiven a long time ago, and for crimes far worse than his departure. His mind had understood, even as is heart could not, that leaving was Salazar’s way of preserving the friendship between them. If he had stayed, they would have torn one another apart, to the point where there would have been nothing worth saving.

It was a mercy, and nobody understood mercy like Godric Gryffindor.

But to tell Salazar this would only inspire hope, something he wished to avoid at all costs. While it broke his heart to do so, Godric could not nurture its growth. They were living on borrowed time as it was, seconds drifting perpetually downward until the closing stroke of the final hour. If they allowed their passions to get the best of them, the resetting of the hourglass would only hit them harder. Letting go would become impossible, and Godric did not trust his own strength in this duel of fates. He and Salazar were destined, yes, but when every conversation became an argument and every argument became a fight, it became difficult to see exactly what they were destined for. A life of unhappiness and strife? They would never agree, no matter how willing they were to negotiate. Godric could not stop the pain to come, but he refused to make it worse.

He had already loved and lost, and he was not prepared to do so again. Not for anything.

Not even for Salazar.

He did not speak, but his intent must have shown on his face. Salazar stood, features darkening, and crossed the room towards him in no more than three paces. Godric flinched at the look that crossed his face. Gone was the unsure and ungainly man who had stiffened when he kissed him, eyes heavy with cautious hope and warm affection. In his place was something infinitely more terrifying; a being of shadow and intense, shuddering rage.

Salazar’s hands fell to his shoulders, fingers tightening painfully. Godric gasped at the ache, but said nothing, even as he was pressed flat into the wall behind him. Salazar followed, moulding their bodies together in a tantalising mixture of heat and hurt. The leather of their strange uniform squealed softly in protest as Salazar’s nails bit deep into his collarbone and even through the tough, unrelenting fabric Godric felt the sting of bruises beginning to form on his skin. He opened his mouth to plead, to protest, to do _something_ , but was immediately silenced by the harsh press of Salazar’s lips on his own. The kiss was passion incarnate, and Godric felt the wet slide of Salazar’s tongue coax him into obedience. This was far better an option to Salazar taking his anger out on him in different, harsher ways, and if Godric was completely honest with himself, he was terrified that if he stopped this, Salazar would see no other alternative. As if sensing the thought, Salazar pulled away, a look of utter betrayal on his face.

Drawing in a shaking breath, Godric could only watch the anger as it bloomed in the other man’s eyes.

“ _Don’t_ lie to me!” Salazar growled, accompanying the words with a sharp bite to his lower lip. Gasping, Godric tasted copper on his tongue and realised, in a senseless, detached way, that he had drawn blood. The world spun dizzyingly around him, the only constant the man in front of him, watching him with lifeless eyes.

The pain in his shoulders became but a dull ache as Salazar lifted his hands to Godric’s face, the tight clench of his jaw countered by the soft, almost reverent way he touched him. In a small part of his mind, where logic still reigned, Godric realised that he was switching tactics, desperation forcing his anger into silence. The thought never made it to the rest of his body, however, and instead he relaxed at the gentle stroke of fingers across his cheek. 

When their vision connected, Salazar’s eyes were bright. With sadness, with anger, with passion—Godric could not know. But they shone like a searchlight, casting itself across the waves, looking for a single stroke of human compassion. Godric drew a wavering breath, shattering the silence that had settled across them. Salazar’s voice was smooth when he spoke, betraying none of his previous anger. 

“You forgive me, don’t you?” he asked, face open and hopeful. Godric felt his heart beat faster and faster.

“N-No,” he stuttered, weakly, still realising the importance of this lie even as he was unable to recall the reasoning behind it. Salazar’s eyes were blazing, the heat carrying to his fingertips, which continued to rub soft, slow circles into his skin. Godric swallowed, and tried again. “I am truly sorry, but I don’t forgive you. I can’t.”

Salazar’s hands stilled. “That’s a lie and we both know it.”

Godric shook his head somewhat frantically, feeling miserable. For reasons he could not fathom, it was the sadness that played on his face that appeared to get through to Salazar, whose entire body had stiffened in response.

“No,” he said, hesitantly. Then again, with growing urgency. “ _No._ ”

There was only one thing that would end this, a final cut of sorts to sever any and all hope either of them had. The thought made him sick to his stomach, bile rising in his throat even as he know there was no other way. Better to make the break now when it would be clean, rather than risk the mess to come.

With the softest of touches, Godric pulled Salazar clear of him, a task that was easier than he had anticipated. Then, looking up at him with open, sorrowful eyes he said: “I’m sorry.”

The words echoed in his mind, left a bitter taste in his mouth. Even he flinched at the harshness of his own actions, but it had to be done. The hope he saw but a fleeting glimpse of? It had to be crushed. Now.

Before it grew into something neither of them would be able to let go of.

Lifting his eyes, Godric saw that Salazar’s face was an expressionless mask. Underneath it all, however, the faintest wisp of feeling stirred, and as Salazar continued to stare at Godric with widening eyes it grew stronger and stronger. It was then, with startling clarity, that Godric saw just how bright his friend’s eyes were, so much so that they could only be holding back tears. Closer now, leaning into the cold comfort Salazar’s touch provided, Godric scanned the other man’s face just in time to see the mask crack. Salazar’s lip quivered and the grief flew forward where his tears would not, trickling past Godric’s defences until it struck the very heart of their bond.

The heavy blade of Salazar’s pain struck deep within his chest and lodged itself there, crushing his lungs with its weight. He felt the sting behind his eyes and unlike his companion, released it with a shuddering sob. He lifted his head to where it had fallen against Salazar’s unmoving chest, knuckles bone-white from where he had forced himself to ride out the pain. Godric resisted the urge to curl back in on himself, even as the pain began anew. This wasn’t about him. None of it was. With that thought in mind and no other, Godric looked up—

—and immediately wished he hadn’t.

The look on Salazar’s face was devastating, and the very sight of it caused an ice-cold shard of pain to slip into his heart. Eyes bright and jaw clenched, he took Godric’s hand like it was a lifeline. Fingers trembled where they pressed against his palm and it was in that moment that he watched, in abject horror, as Salazar’s resolve shattered entirely. Godric opened his mouth to say something, anything, that might rid them both of this untameable agony, but he hadn't the faintest clue of what to say to ever make this right again. Fear gripped him like a vice, stopping his feeble effort to speak in its tracks, when Salazar launched forward, gripped his shirtsleeve and _screamed_ into his chest—deep, heart-wrenching sobs that shook them both.

Frozen with a dread so strong it was debilitating, Godric stood with his back against the wall as the fiercest man he had ever known broke into a million pieces. Because of this. Because of him.

He could do nothing but hold him, tears making their way silently down his face. 

Then, with a sadness so severe it burned, Salazar cried out.

“Why? Damn it, _why_?!”

One question, repeated like a mantra. _Why, why, why, why._

That was all it took. 

One word in a voice so devastated, so broken that Godric felt his own heart tremor in response. It hurt; more than any curse, more than any wound, and it never abated. The power took his breath, ripped it from his throat with a scream and pummelled into him with the force of a thousand fists. The world spun and he felt detached, like the very thing that had made him whole had just... _disappeared_ , slipping away without word or warning. It felt like Armageddon, like the end of the world, and as sparks erupted in his vision Godric realised that it looked like it too. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t _breathe_.

In the distance, somebody screamed. The sound crashed against his ears, another layer to the fear that gripped his heart. It took a long moment before he realised it was _him_ , and even then he slipped back into incomprehension.

“Godric? Godric!”

Salazar’s face swam before him, eyes glistening with tears. Godric trembled, and in a disconnected part of his brain realised that he was lying on the floor. He dismissed the thought. What did it matter where his physical shell was? He had no use for it, not anymore. He was damned to the very corners of hell for what he had done, for the sadness and utter depravity he had wrought. So why did it matter where he was, when he knew where he would ultimately end up? From his fingertips to the soles of his feet he was completely numb, his body slack and unresponsive. It was a small mercy, a separation of the torture Salazar was feeling. Mercy, where he was merciless, and Godric felt like curling into a ball and just fading away, into the woodwork, but his body wouldn’t move and his limbs wouldn’t feel and there was nothing but _fear, fear, fear, ohgodpleasebeallright._

There was the most curious sensation, dulled as it was, of fingers against his cheek before that too was swallowed by the sweeping, all-consuming numbness. From what limited sense he had, he heard his name being repeated again and again, in increasingly urgent tones as everything faded to a crisp, complete black.

The last thing he remembered before his mind went still was hearing a thought that, of all the others, was not his.

_Calm your mind._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't kill me? 
> 
> I wish I could say that the angst ends here, but it doesn't. There's so much more to come, both in emotion and plot. To my dearest readers, I have to ask: are there any other pairings that you would either like in this story, or would not like? I’m considering a few as side-notes, or perhaps interludes, but I want to make sure I have a general consensus. The main two will, of course, be Charles/Erik and Godric/Salazar, but would you mind a further exploration into Salazar’s affinity for Charles, for example? I’m leaving it open, since it won’t exactly affect the plot much, but I thought it might make things interesting. Until next time!


End file.
